Babylon's Sister
by scarlet and gold
Summary: Between the lines of DH from the chapter The Thief onwards. Hermione won't admit it but something is happening between her and Harry that all her practiced self control just may not be able to contain. HERMIONES POINT OF VIEW. See Babylon for Harry's.
1. Chapter 1

This story is the Hermione version of my other story Babylon, from her point of view. Babylon is the same storyline but from Harry's POV. See authors note on that for more info.

Otherwise please review if u can, I really need some help with this! I've tinkered with this for ages and I think I've lost perspective. As always thanks for reading and reviewing xxx

Aaaand I don't own the Harry Potter characters etc blah de blah.

Chapter One

_Let go of your heart_

_Let go__ of your h__ead_

_And feel it now_

Dragon heartstring at its core. 14 and a half inches of vine wood.

I remember when I got my wand; it was one of the best days of my life. It was better than receiving my Hogwarts letter. Better even than getting all those wonderful wizard books with moving pictures that had occupied my mind so greatly leading up to finally getting on the Hogwarts Express for the first time.

I'm studying my wand as I wrap one of my curls around it; the bits of polished wood that still show through reflect the little moonlight we had in this clearing. I adore this wand. It turned all my dreams into realities.

It's the only thing I want to think about right now. It's safe, as are all the spells and charms I know – I run over them mechanically in my mind, anything to avoid the strangeness that has entered my thoughts.

My world has tilted a little.

But I'm sure I'm making too big a fuss.

Maybe it's just what happens when you sit here alone, staring out into darkness, expecting some kind of ambush or some sort of trouble.

I took over Harry's watch outside the tent because he passed out – or whatever it is he does when he gets that burn in his scar. I've never been angrier at him about it then I was tonight, and I have no idea why.

Well, maybe a little.

Earlier, when he came out to relieve me at 10, he sat down next to me and took my hand.

It's not like I've never held his hand before. Or grabbed it – in fact, I've been in plenty of situations with him where being glued to his arm is the only way I feel safe, and it's the most natural thing in the world.

There was just something different about this.

I sigh and abandon concentrating on my wand now – I'll admit I'm thinking about it. The way he picked my hand up, so gently. So unexpected, and it felt so warm and …intimate.

I know I must be imagining things; it must be the lack of sleep and food getting to me. I pull up the blanket I've got wrapped around me to cover my shoulders.

It's just… he's never touched me like that before. Tenderly. I don't think he realised he was running his thumb back and forth very slightly over mine. My hand was on top so his hand was resting on my thigh and, well; even now I can still almost feel the spot where it lay. It had been so hard to concentrate on talking with Ron when I'd gone inside afterwards; all I could think of was …Harry.

So, okay, I know I've made a pact with myself never to think about it but I know how I feel about Harry. He's my… he's just Harry. My Harry. I can't even explain it. But I realise how he feels about me. It's all as it should be.

But I don't know why this was different tonight. I was watching this grey squirrel that had been out in the open when it turned abruptly to dash up the tree; I barely noticed Harry was there until his hand had taken mine and was lying on my leg.

My stomach flipped in response and I turned to look at his face, confused. He was staring off, his jaw set in that determined look I see him get when he's trying to control his emotions. He doesn't know that a muscle in his jaw twitches when he does that. I wanted to ask him what was wrong but I just knew he didn't want me to speak, and for once I obliged. I actually just enjoyed watching him for a moment noticing how his upper lip turns up ever so slightly. I think he has lovely lips.

My thoughts were running away on a steam train and I needed to look away, I knew I did. I decided on a fairly platonic resting of my head on his shoulder, but somehow I found that I fit a bit too perfectly, I was automatically nestled into his neck. He was still rubbing my hand and I closed my eyes – I wanted to take a mental photograph of the moment.

Then I thought of Ron.

With a jolt I took stock, and though I quickly realised he wouldn't be able to come out here, I just know this would not look good.

And Ron feels something for me. I'm pretty sure I know that now. I shouldn't screw that up with silly delusions about Harry.

So I sat up, a little too quickly, and tried to stand, tipping into Harry a bit and grabbing his shoulder to steady myself. His face finally turned up to me, I could tell, but I didn't trust myself to look at him, and, as if to say I'm sorry for jumping up so abruptly, I squeezed his shoulder briefly. Walking away from him, I thought my feet have never felt so heavy.

When I stepped into the tent, Ron wanted to talk, about Harry again. I hate the way he always wants to make me co-conspirator on his ideas that Harry has exaggerated how much information he has on the Horcruxes. I snapped at him as he spoke, not that he noticed, so caught up in his rant. I started to tune it out, only to focus on the strange sensation that it was as if I could still feel Harry's hand resting on my thigh. It was a strange feeling but it was there, and I felt thoroughly shaken.

Then I spent the next hour trying to pretend to myself that there had been nothing different about that moment. We'd held hands plenty of times, been close, there was nothing in it. But I kept coming back to the same thought.

It had _felt_ different. From him. I don't know why.

I decided I needed to know. This kind of thing – not knowing the answers – could send me crazy. I needed to know what was wrong.

So I glanced at Ron who was sullenly pushing his wizard chess pieces around their board and stepped quickly out of the tent. I got a horrible fright.

Harry was collapsed on the ground, his eyes open but unseeing, writhing and sweating. I knew from experience he was having a vision of some kind and instantly I felt the familiar clench at my heart as I worried for him. Then, abruptly, my thoughts took a turn like never before.

It was the scar. He had obviously been seeing more visions than he'd been letting on and that was why – the only reason why – he had seemed different to me. It had nothing to do with holding my hand, looking at me intently. He was having visions again. And here I was letting myself run away on the notion that he had been preoccupied with thoughts of …me.

I'm sure I blushed from embarrassment though there was no one conscious there to observe me. Frustrated tears sprang to my eyes and I blinked them back angrily, bending over him, shaking him hard. He recovered and tried to tell me the story but I was angry – furious at myself for getting carried away with silly thoughts now when I'd spent so much time perfecting the art of ignoring my heart when it came to Harry.

I could tell he was pissed off at me when I insisted I take over the watch and he go back inside the tent but I didn't care. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts and sort myself out, this was the first lapse in so long where I'd let myself contemplate my thoughts on Harry for any amount of time. No more. It was only that this place we were in had got to me, sitting here and staring into the darkness and I was sick of all of it. I could hear Harry in the tent relaying his vision to Ron and a big part of me wanted to know what he'd actually seen.

A bigger part of me wanted to wallow in self pity instead and that bit won.

And so that's where I find myself now.

I shake my head at the memory again. So ridiculous. I actually make a 'tsk' noise out loud at my own runaway thoughts and mentally list all the reasons again why I must not be thinking straight. Lack of food, lack of sleep, life in mortal peril – all of that. Then he steps out of the tent.

At first, I think I might have fallen asleep and am dreaming. I chide myself (again) for the childish thought. I look up at him, in his checked pyjama bottoms, white t-shirt, hair sticking up as always. It makes me smile.

Then I instantly think of how I berated him before about having his vision of Voldemort and I feel kinda terrible. It's not like he wants all of that. Granted, he could try harder with the Occulmency, but really – isn't he under the same conditions as me, hungry, tired, worried? I feel like I've deserted him and I instantly shuffle over, inviting him to sit down while forming my apology in my head.

He stretches his long legs out as he leans against the canvas and I look down to see his bare feet. He must be freezing, and here I am with the entire blanket. I cast an expansion charm over it with my wand from inside the heated cocoon I've made and the blanket promptly doubles in size.

I lift my arms up, shaking out the extra length then turn to him to offer him some. It's just natural to wind it around him, one of my arms throwing it around his back, the other coming around the front to pull it right around him. I didn't really think that through very well though.

He flinches, like he thought I was coming in to hug him. I don't know why I find it funny, but I do – considering my fragile state today I should actually be offended. He just looked a bit horrified, like I was going to jump on him or something. I avert my eyes as I try not to laugh. Well, it's not as if he's not used to my hugs, and he's always hugged me back, no matter how taken aback he is – bless him. It was one of the things I loved about him.

I'm just registering my last thought and the use of the 'L' word in it when I realise he's staring at me.

I just caught it by accident, smiling to myself as I was; I unconsciously looked up at him.

To find him studying me. I don't even know what expression my face is making but my mouth goes instantly dry.

He's not looking away.

I can see him fairly clearly even in the low light. His eyes are intent, he's watching me like he's just about to say something but when I think he's going to speak on the next breath he just blinks and lets his eyes travel slowly over my face. He's never looked at me like this before and though my doubting mind tries to speak up again, I know this isn't my imagination this time.

The dormant part of my mind that I've shut down for the last few years comes springing into vibrant life.

Every misguided thought I'd shoved aside, every urge I'd ever had to run my fingers through his hair, comes flaring back into my memories from wherever I'd banished them, and turns into this little flame – promising to build to a bonfire any second now – that settles somewhere just under my ribcage.

It makes me study him back, instead of looking away like the 'old me' would. As if I've changed into a whole different person in the millisecond that his eyes have been on me, really on me, for maybe the first time.

That intense green – that I've never been able to examine like I want to. I've tried, sometimes when I've been talking to him, but then my thoughts get too muddled, trying to stare and think of something else was beyond me. And right now, even though I can't see him very well, I decide to take advantage of the moment. If this could all end any second now, then let me get lost in those eyes just once.

But then the moon chooses this exact moment to cruelly hide away behind a cloud and I feel cheated. I can still make him out in the darkness though, and – the flame flares brightly – he's _still_ looking at me.

Our faces are so close. I can feel him breathe, I'm so aware of it; it feels like it may be the only thing that's keeping me breathing too. I take in the smell of him – he must have had a shower after I found him before. He smells like soap and his clean t-shirt, but it's soft and sleepy and warm, not overpowering. And then there's that indefinable something that is just him.

I can almost feel my heart crack as my hand moves up to his face – entirely of its own accord.

_What am I doing…_ the constant voice in my head feels distant for once and I wonder stupidly if it's because it's so dark. Though it does seem that the lack of light has given me some kind of license I've never given myself before because then my thumb reaches for his scar.

I've always wanted to trace it. Gently – just run my finger over it; so many times I've buried that thought. Especially when it pains him, I just want to take that pain away.

But that's always been too intimate. I've ruffled his hair, kissed the top of his head. Close, but never what I'm doing now.

I'm terrified this is wrong; I'm reading this all wrong. That his heart is not matching mine in the Olympic pace it's at now – and that at any second he's going to jerk away and I'll be stuttering apologies, excuses.

And then, he closes his eyes.

I don't even see it, I feel it. We've moved closer together, our foreheads only inches apart. Time seems to have frozen and I close my eyes too.

I'm so nervous; I don't know what to do. I bite my lip, thinking I might even draw blood soon. But my hand is still moving of it's own will, tracing the scar over again as if committing it to memory. As if I don't know every curve and plane of his face already.

The darkness makes me braver and I want to touch his face properly, brush his cheek as I've thought to do a million times. I love this face. With a leap in my chest, I decide I'm sure I hear his breathing coming quicker now. So I cradle the side of his face in my palm.

He doesn't wince, or retreat. He doesn't move for a moment, and then he turns his face into my hand.

My breathing actually stops for a second.

It was just the smallest of gestures but it was the sign we both needed. A gentle nudge into my hand that told me not to stop. It told me I wasn't imagining this, I wasn't dreaming it; he was here with me now, breathing the same breath as mine. He turns his face to me again and the fervor of his stare is so palpable that I don't even need the moon to come back to know the way he's looking at me.

But when it does, I realise the feel of his gaze was nothing compared to seeing it.

His eyes are blazing with a potent mix of yearning and desire – I almost want to look away, but I hold his stare. I hold it because it matches how I'm feeling.

Electricity is shooting through my body, so relentless now that I feel like I might faint.

Then he finally touches me.

His hand on my neck is urgent, insistent – but still cautious, teetering on the brink of surrender to the feelings I know he's having now. He pulls my face to his, I swear our lips brushed but he's holding back, keeping that half an inch of sanity between us. I want to kiss him more than I've wanted anything in my life.

I'm dizzy; my breathing is out of control and so is his. His fingertips on my neck press and release against my skin, gripping me tightly then letting me go, reflecting his thoughts I understood.

I've only ever kissed one person. It was Viktor. It was fine – it had started awkward but became nicer once we got over the shyness. There was nothing shy about me now.

My mind registers that I might go mad if he doesn't kiss me. I reach for the arm that's holding me and hang on as if I'm drowning and he's my life raft. I can't help myself. Besides, I know that if I don't grab hold of him now I'll fall.

Then I really am falling – as he seizes me, and finally, kisses me.

There's not even a hint of shyness. The sensations coursing through me wash any of that away – the surprising softness of his lips, his tongue and mouth molding into mine like we had done this a million times before.

Agonizingly he stops, but he clutches me against him still – his eyes tightly closed. I wanna say something to him, I don't know exactly what. He's shaking his head now, fighting some internal struggle and I want to help him.

I want to take him away from here.

As soon as the thought occurs to me, my body is moving of its own accord, my arms moving to grip his so he doesn't let go of me now. I need his kiss again like it's some kind of life source and so I move into him this time, kissing him tentatively before giving in to the way I really want to kiss him.

A fresh thrill assaults me when he crushes me into him in response and I realise how much the kiss affects him too; how little control he has over this – whatever this is. A glimmer of reality threatens to push in then and my body reacts, moving to stand up, gently pushing his arms upward to come with me.

Now that we're standing I wonder where I was going with this and my only instant thought is to move away from the tent, it seems to represent everything sensible and real – and everything that would bring this to an end. I reach up to the wrist of his hand that's still tangled in my hair and turn to lead him away quickly before I loose my nerve.

Walking through the trees I'm not sure what I'm looking for, I'm just walking. He's following me readily enough; he might be under the impression that I know where I'm going and what I'm doing. I don't – not yet. My mind is starting to whirl, trying to make sense of something that makes no sense at all.

Stepping over vines and tree roots as we head away from the tent, I allow myself a little rational thought.

Okay, so the doubting part of my mind is fairly silent now. I know I'm not imagining the way he pressed against me, pulling me hard up against him. You don't kiss someone like that if you don't want to. It was obvious that he didn't want to stop and I didn't either.

So what now? I just want to lie with him. Kiss him some more, just a little more, then maybe we'll be sated enough to stop and think. My conviction is so weak it's almost laughable.

Then the 'why' question rears its head and for the first time since we kissed I'm sad. It's probably just comfort for him. A warm body to hold while he's missing… I can't even bear to think her name. And what if it is comfort? I shake my head at the answer I give myself. It doesn't matter. I couldn't stop this if I tried.

All of a sudden we're presented with a clearing and again my body takes over, putting all the necessary plans in motion without looking at him. He may come to his senses any moment – or hey who knows, even I might. I'm not very convinced though. Particularly when I find myself spreading our blanket out on the ground.

I move in a circle around us, casting protection charms, and then – blushing at my own guilty thoughts – silencing and warming charms. It's a part of my nature to be prepared and organized, but I can barely acknowledge what I must be planning for.

Finally, I've got nothing left to do but to turn and look at him.

He's watching me and he looks a little dazed but his gaze is unerring. My head is buzzing with what ifs – if he's sure, if he knows what he's doing. If he's thinking of …I make myself say the name in my head…Ginny. He must see my thoughts somehow because he makes his first communication with me, just the tiniest gesture of a shrug. His face is pained but he manages to look sure at the same time – and I know he doesn't want to stop.

I think maybe he's agreeing with my feeling that we try not to think tonight.

I press down a distant feeling of sadness – I think it's sadness that we're in agreement that this is a secret. It means I know that I really am comfort. But maybe that's what this is to me too. All I know is that watching him stand there, barefoot in the private clearing; I can't bear how good he looks. I just want to touch him again and the hunger in his eyes as he watches me is telling me he's thinking the same.

I don't know if he moves first or if I do but the next second he's holding me again and I'm losing all my senses.

The feel of his hands on me is electric, pressing me in to him, running over my body with a sureness that mirrors my own. I feel like I know his body already, my fingertips tracing the muscles of his back like they already know every line. I revel in letting my hands wander wherever they want, roaming over his shoulders and arms as we kiss.

It's not enough though. All I can feel is an unsatisfied urge in the pit of my stomach that wants to be closer to him, every kiss and every touch just making me want more.

As if he's thinking the same thing he lifts me off the ground, in an almost frustrated manner and I can't help but smile. I want to tell him I feel the same; my legs come up to circle his waist as he hoists me higher and it brings a low sound from his throat.

He holds me in to him for a moment, carrying me effortlessly then he stops kissing me long enough to see his way to the blanket. Next he lays me down, one arm steadying us on the ground, the other lowering me slowly with an arm around my waist.

My arms are wound around his neck, barely noticing where I am, so lost in the feel of his kiss. Then we're lying back and the weight of his body is on me. A noise escapes me I didn't know I was capable of making. He feels so good pressed into me, kissing my neck now. I arch my body instinctively, opening my eyes and catching a glimpse of the stars through the trees above us.

I want to do this now, think of consequences later. I know that's unlike me but I've known for a while now that this – he – is the only thing that can make me throw all my resolutions, all my good intentions out of the window. Especially with his breath on my cheek and in my ear, his hands coming up to tangle in my hair again.

I'm not even nervous. I do wonder for a moment if he is – but then I don't even know if this is his first time. I know he's possibly more experienced than me – and a familiar jealous pang assaults me at the thought. Still I push it aside as I bury my hands in his hair too; I don't want to think of anyone else but him, lying on top of me, right now. I roll over on top of him to banish any thought.

And that is the last conscious thought I manage.

It passes as a blur of images that sear themselves into my memory, never to be forgotten. I feel drunk with something that's close to happiness, but it's more than that, so much more. It's like I'm finally finding that part of me that's been missing, this is the most right I've felt in my life.

We know exactly what the other wants, there's no hint of awkwardness. I love burying my face into his neck, kissing him, breathing in the smell of his skin, trying to memorise it but I know that I can't. It's something that I already know I'd have to come back again and again to smell, to taste, and right then, that thought scares me as I know this is a stolen moment. I don't know if I'll ever get to be this close to him again, and the thought makes me lose even more inhibition, touching him everywhere while he's right here with me, while he's mine.

Sometimes he seems like he's mad at himself for what he's doing. I think that's just the way he's translating the guilt. As for me, I know mine will surface later. For now I can push that to the side, deciding not to think at all for once, though both of us do things that mean we are thinking a little, despite ourselves. Like how I take care not to mark him with my fingernails. Though I badly want to.

Lying still with him afterwards I have my face in his chest, pressed against his slightly damp skin. It occurs to me that we haven't spoken, but that doesn't strike me as strange. I've often thought we communicate better without words, and this …well this confirms it.

Besides, what can he say to me.

Nothing can come of this. But it is the singular most amazing moment of my life so far and I don't regret it at all. Guilt might convince me otherwise later, but for now, his fingers are lightly brushing my face and I wouldn't change that for the world.

I don't want to kill the moment, but I need to look up at his face, see if I can find regret etched there. It's silly – I should have no expectations. But I just need to know now, just one more moment of weakness before we're gone from here.

He looks down into my eyes and I see everything in his gaze. He's not silly; he knows this is no fairytale. But he looks steadily back at me, telling me he has no regrets. It's all I need right now, but when he nuzzles my face gently with his I almost cry. I refuse to give in to fantasies that this means anything beyond this clearing but that little gesture lets me know that even if this was comfort, for him and maybe for me, he didn't use me.

I smile up at him, thanking him silently for being gentle with my feelings – whether he knows it or not.

But it's time to go.

Once we're standing he does little things like picking leaves out of my hair that endear me so much that I almost start to wish he'd be a little cold to me. I don't need any false hope at this point, and for the first time in the night I'm tempted to talk to him.

And he silences me with a kiss.

A soft, gentle kiss that I don't think he realizes is full of promise but it is.

A sense of foreboding grips me as I glimpse a premonition that this will not be the last time I kiss him like this.

He leads me off as soon as we finish and I'm glad for the walk back to the tent, my hand in his and my eyes to the forest floor, my mind trying to straighten itself out – find some bearing of reality to hold on to.

I find it when we spy the tent.

It stands there like a watchful bulldog, squatting in the middle of the small clearing. We can see through the disillusionment charms because we made them, and the low light of the bluebell flames inside glows through the canvas. When we get closer, we hear the noise that Ron's making with his snores and the guilty pang in my chest turns into a more painful ache.

He takes both my hands and I look up at him. He can't meet my eyes and I can't bear to hear what he may or may not say.

I take a mental picture of him there, eyes cast down making his eyelashes stand out on his cheeks, his hair messed (not unusual other than this time it was me that did it) and the forelock hanging down over his scar.

I want to tell him everything I feel.

And so I stand on my toes to kiss him quickly and run away before I do.

I don't aim for anywhere and end up somewhere on his cheek but my speedy retreat is foiled because he has quick reflexes and he's holding me into his shoulder before I know it.

I breathe him in again, tears pricking at my closed eyes. I must get away.

But when I do he doesn't let go of my hand and so we're standing there in silence, postponing me leaving, until I look in his eyes.

I know in that instant it's going to happen again.

It makes me unfathomably sad and deliriously happy at the same time.

I manage a smile before I finally run away into the tent.

It's odd but when I look back on that night, I could pinpoint it as the moment I grew up. I don't mean that to sound cheesy – and it wasn't just about losing my virginity. It was just that in that moment, I realised that despite best intentions, despite everything you _think _you know about yourself and your scruples – you can still lose self control. And in just one night, with one kiss, everything can change.

But anyway, that's how it was.

At the beginning.


	2. Chapter 2

_'Babylon's Sister' is a story written alongside another story of mine, Babylon. Both follow the same storyline but Babylon is __Harry's__ Point Of View, Babylon's Sister is Hermione's so they are quite different. U could read both or just one, it doesn't matter – is just an experiment to try something a little different. _

Author's note:

(I'm not a fan of long author's notes so I'm sorry to keep doing this to u!)

I'm just posting one more (shorter) chapter now to show how the story is going to develop, but I'll post the rest when the story's fully finished (I've learnt I get a bit sidetracked if I write as I go..)

I have quite a few chapters already – the story is kinda epic and goes on past The Epilogue (ugh, which I hate but is my challenge to myself) to when …they eventually get together. But just please let me know what u think of this chapter because the rest of the story will be kinda similar in style and pace.

Thanks for your comments I really appreciate u taking the time to review J

Chapter Two

_Looking back through time  
You know it's clear that I've been blind  
I've been a fool  
To open up my heart  
To all that jealousy, _

_That bitterness, that ridicule._

The next day, I wake up afraid.

Scared that we've changed things between us irreversibly and for the worse.

I jump up out of bed, wanting to get away from my thoughts and probably hide before Harry comes inside. But once the water from the shower hits me, I know that hiding from him is as pointless as denying my feelings all these years.

There's no escaping it.

I turn my face up to the water and let it run over me, allowing my thoughts to go back to last night. I can't help the smile that materializes on my face, even coming through the lead weight of guilt that's getting heavier on my shoulders as I think about being around Ron today.

But I resolve to put a brave face on it, and lie in the bed I've made so to speak.

When I first see him as he stands at the kitchen counter making tea, wrapped in our blanket, my stomach flips. But that's something that's happened for a while now, whether I admitted it or not so it's easy to keep drying my hair with my head upside down as if nothing is different.

Ron stirs in his bunk and I look over to him, examining my feelings. The guilt is there but part of me acknowledges that what Ron and I have is unspoken too. We haven't actually made any commitment to each other – and really, Ginny is technically Harry's ex. So maybe what happened last night is not such a betrayal.

I actually roll my eyes at my own pitiful justifications under cover of my hanging hair.

What we did was woefully wrong and Ron and Ginny would never understand.

I get an urge to wake Ron, like it's going to make everything better. I shake him and he turns over, grumbling.

I start casting a drying charm on my hair as I watch Ron struggling to wake. I can feel Harry approaching with a cup of tea and I turn to him, ready with a fake smile. But his eyes connect with mine and it's strange, there's none of the awkwardness I think I expected.

With one slightly crooked smile from him, it's like it always is, the unspoken understanding of each other the same as ever. As if to prove it, we start talking of Horcrux's and other such familiar things and it feels like it always has when we work together. We even decide upon moving camp without waiting for Ron's input, as we often do but this time it's as if to prove everything is normal.

Though I think we both silently acknowledge that we're best to put some distance between us and that moonlit clearing from last night.

Over the next few days, I start to think maybe I imagined it all.

My mind spends far too much time wading through the memories of our encounter but otherwise, it's like nothing has changed between the three of us.

I begin to wonder if my instinct was off; when I had thought that it would happen again. Maybe it was just a one time thing, as if to get it out of our system.

Frustratingly, the thought hurts and I get angry at myself, for wanting more.

Ron's mood is also affecting me as it gets fouler and fouler and I begin to think that there's something pervading our usual easy unity – something more than what has happened between me and Harry. When I catch a glimpse of the green 'S' of the Horcrux Locket glinting around Harry's neck, it seems to trigger thoughts of insecurity that Harry only did what he did with me because of this hideous piece of jewelry.

And when he comes back from a failed food mission to tell us he couldn't cast his Patronus, it seems my fears are confirmed.

It's so unlike him to have problems with that and so I have to tell him my theory, though it means spelling out that he might have made a mistake with me. I swallow my pride and crouch down in front of him to approach the subject.

"Do you think maybe…you've been possessed?"

I try to keep my face impassive, particularly with Ron watching us so closely – his mood instantly more sour from the news of another food deprived night. But infuriatingly I can see just by looking at him that my hurt is plain on my face and I scowl inwardly at myself for my lack of control.

He looks offended at my question though, and snaps a sharp 'No' at me. Then he gets an intense look on his face as if he wants to say a lot more than he can with Ron looking on. I watch him choose his words carefully, a frown creasing his brow.

"I remember everything we've done while I've been wearing it."

It's a simple sentence and I don't even know if he realizes how much meaning it's soaked in. Those few words reflect just how much I've been revisiting the other night in my head. And it makes me realise he's been doing the same.

My mouth opens slightly but I can't reply, not trusting myself to keep a steady voice. I'm so grateful I have my back to Ron as my feelings must be written all over my face.

I watch his eyes as he frowns at me; it seems like he's actually angry at me for doubting that he knew what he was doing.

"I wouldn't know what I'd done if I'd been possessed would I?" he says.

A part of me is worryingly happy that he seems so adamant that the other night was not a mistake. Messages are flying back and forth between our eyes and I know we're pushing the boundaries in front of Ron. I'm grateful when he mentions Ginny next, diffusing the tension between us. I can think straight again after that – her name serving to bring me back to reality and to stop me flying off in a cloud over his unspoken message. That he doesn't regret the other night.

I suggest we take turns wearing the Horcrux, the first practical thought I manage in a while. But when I slip the cold chain over my neck and down my top, even the dread it seems to fill me with can't diffuse the happiness I feel that I know for sure now, he thinks of our encounter too.

And, like me, he's wondering when it will happen again.

Which is sooner than I thought.

A few nights later, we manage to find a good meal for once, and on full stomachs, the conversation and laughter flows easily between the three of us – reminding me of safer and simpler times in Gryffindor tower.

Except when Ron goes to bed early, his snores starting up straight away. I'm forcibly reminded of the last night Harry and I were awake while he snored loudly and I can feel Harry is too. An invisible thread of connection seems to quiver between us as we go about getting ready for bed and I can feel an anticipation start to build.

I'm glad he ducks out of the tent to take the first watch because I don't know how much longer I could've avoided looking at him. But as I stand in the bathroom, brushing my hair, the pull to go out to him is overwhelming.

My ever present guilt is drowning in the dizzying feeling that he's calling to me, in some way, to come to him.

Without thinking too much, I pull a jumper over my pyjamas, pulling up the hood over my ponytail and shoving my hands into the pockets. I creep past Ron's sleeping form and out the tent door.

With one look at Harry, I know he's been waiting for me.

I have no hope of stopping myself as I draw towards him and finally I'm crushed against the length of his body, kissing and clinging to him desperately.

I don't even know who moves us away from the tent this time but we both know where we're going. We've camped on a small farm and the grey silhouette of the barn appears out of the darkness in front of us as we walk hand in hand, quickly towards it.

This time I'm lost in the moment, refusing any reality that tries to creep in as I concentrate on the steady drumming of rain on the tin roof to drown out my guilt.

He leads me up the stairs to the hayloft. It is warm and smells comforting, and I smile as I look around at the cosy space.

When I turn back to him he's on his knees, his face turned up to me, still holding my hand.

I step in close and hold his head in my hands, looking unashamedly into his eyes. His expression is a bit unreadable, but so full I'm almost tempted to speak.

But I know instinctively we still won't be saying any words again tonight, and so I kiss him, raking my hands through his hair. He runs his hands over my body and up my back to my shoulders, gently pulling me down to kneel in front of him.

Still kissing me, his hands move to tangle in my hair, fiddling with the elastic I have tying it back into a ponytail. He smiles against my mouth as he realizes he doesn't know how to pull it out and so I raise my hands to do it for him. He watches me intently as my hair falls around my shoulders, with a small smile still on his face.

Then we're lost to the moment, frantically drinking in the feel and taste of each other as if it's been years and not weeks since the last time we were together like this. I feel more of his skin against mine this time – able to fully take off our shirts in the warm hayloft.

When we lie wrapped in each other on the hay afterwards, I even entertain silly thoughts about how we could just stay here, forever. He kisses my forehead as I run my fingers over his chest, and I have to use all of my will power to squeeze his arm, my signal that we should go.

We get dressed in silence. He's ready before me and sits on the ground, his linked arms circling his bent knees. I try not to look his way as I search for my hair tie, find it, and pull my hair back again. I can sense he's watching me closely.

On the walk back I want to think of something to say. But I still have no idea where to start and so I just run my hand over his shoulder, walking away before he saw the unexpected tears that have risen to my eyes.

Again, everything went on as usual as we traveled around the country, the only noticeable difference being Ron's deteriorating mood. I definitely make allowances for his horrible manner, purely at my guilt at what Harry and I were doing. I become more desperate to find decent food for Ron as it seems to be the only thing that would lift his frame of mind and make him behave at least halfway normal.

One night though, after I'd found us a particularly large meal out of a food store of another farm we'd camped on, Ron seemed in great spirits. I was feeling guilty for stealing – even though I'd left money in its place – but Ron was ecstatic to have a full stomach, and made a point of complimenting me and paying me attention all night. I smiled with guilt at my relief - because it made me realize Ron really didn't have any suspicions.

Strangely though, it seemed to make Harry uneasy. He was agitated all night, and wouldn't look at me. I gave up trying to guess what the problem was and got my stuff together to take the first watch shift.

Huddled in the door of the tent, I wondered at Harry's mood. One part of me thought it recognized his look and his body language to be something like…jealously. But that couldn't be right – could it? I poked my head in the door to look over at them both sleeping. Ron was sprawled over his bunk, limbs hanging over the edges, snoring up a storm as usual. Harry's form was motionless under his blankets and I couldn't tell if he was awake or not.

Well, I had to wake him soon anyway, to take over the shift. Maybe I might have the guts to ask him what was wrong then. I doubted it though.

I thought I'd go to the bathroom first and silently crossed the room. I didn't bother turning the light on, it was too bright, so I decided on lighting my wand and balancing it on the sink. Washing my hands I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked different lately. I don't know how, just different. I wondered if anyone other than me could tell.

My mind preoccupied with that thought I picked up my wand and opened the door to leave.

And ran straight into Harry.

For a split second I got a fright, but I amazed myself at how quickly I responded when he grasped my arms – taking us both back into the dark bathroom. As soon as the door closed, his lips found mine and he was kissing me insistently.

We were both quiet but I managed to cast some spells to keep us undetected – though this was far too close to Ron, we both knew it. But I had no desire to stop, and it seemed as if he needed something from me tonight. I thought back to my earlier suspicions about him being jealous and I started to think I was right. He kissed me now like he was trying to brand me, mark me as his.

And so I finally had the courage to speak. Just to tell him it was him …it has always been him. I whispered his name.

I hoped he understood the message; it seemed as if he did with the way he kissed me back. It was all I had to give.

I knew it was so risky and impulsive to do what we did, and it made me feel like this thing had more control over both of us than we would care to admit.

But I knew it would happen again.

And it did. In any moment we could steal away, we would – under the guise of discussing the next possible Horcrux, or gathering wood together, or most frequently when Ron was asleep and Harry and I were on consecutive shifts.

All the spells we were using to repel muggles and hide from Deatheaters became out tools for making sure we were safe from discovery by Ron also.

My guilt was at times overwhelming, and I would take part in discussions with Ron where he would moan about Harry and this journey he'd brought us on, just to ease my shame. I felt like sticking up for Harry but I was worried that if I started sticking up for him, I didn't know where I would stop.

But the thrill I got from our encounters far outweighed the guilt and I looked forward to them like they were the only thing keeping me alive.

I didn't know where we were all headed for once, and being unsure of anything was really foreign for me. So it took me by surprise when things came to a head a few weeks later, on a riverbank in Wales.


End file.
